‹ Prequel: Icarus and the Bird of Peace
The Bird in the Handkerchief.
bye bye blackbird.
They hear the loud “oh!” It seems to come out of nowhere and several heads turn. Ryan’s staring off, his hand over his mouth. No one says anything and eventually, the heads turn away and people return to the what they were doing before the short word. Nobody notices when Ryan starts to walk across the grass to the tree where he saw the bird fall.
He’s not sure why it fell, but it’s on the ground and it’s not moving. He crouches down and stares at it for a moment. He doesn’t think that it’s breathing. There’s no rise and fall in its chest. Ryan reaches out and gently picks it up in one hand even though he knows it’s stupid and that it could be carrying one of a million diseases. It’s so small in his hand and he brings up the index finger from his other hand to lightly stroke the top of the bird’s head.
It’s dead.
Its heart has ceased to function and it’s no longer breathing. Dead. Gone.
Ryan shivers suddenly, even though it’s a warm April day. He had the feeling, like when you remember something but it’s gone so quickly that you’ve forgotten what you were beginning to remember. It was a story he thinks. One of those ‘once upon a time’ things about a boy wanting to be a bird. Or was it a real boy?
Maybe it wasn’t even a story. Maybe it was something else. There was a boy on a bed crying, dreaming of flying. He wanted wings and to be gone, away, not trapped in a human body. There was another boy who brought him a bird, but he pushed it away and killed it with his thoughtlessness and selfishness.
Ryan remembers a little too much then and wishes he had forgotten. He taps the side of the bird with his finger. “Wake up.” he says quietly.
It doesn’t answer and it doesn’t move.
A strangled sort of sob makes its way out of Ryan’s throat and he squeezes his eyes shut, trying to fight the tears, but they burn his irises and he lets his eyes fly open, a sharp exhale almost making him choke. He’s not quite sure what he’s crying for. The bird or himself or the boy in the bed wishing or the bird that the boy knocked to the ground.
And he’s wondering if it’s karma or a lesson or if he’s just reading too far into things because he knows that when his brain starts it goes and goes and goes. “Why’d you die?” he asks the creature in his hands. The bird, his bird, doesn’t answer. And Ryan should feel slightly put off that his latest pet wasn’t his until it had already died, but at least he doesn’t have to worry about some ex-girlfriend taking it or the complications of tour.
And now there’s an almost twisted smile on his face. I’m so fucking sick. There’s really no way to bury it, he thinks. The ground is hard and he doesn’t have a shovel. But he doesn’t want to just leave it there on the ground either. It’s a little too off-handed, like discarding a piece of garbage. And it’s not garbage, it’s a bird—his bird—so he looks around trying to think of another option.
He ends up leaving the bird at the base of the tree, wrapped in a handkerchief from his pocket with a dandelion on top of it. Ryan knows dandelions aren’t actually flowers, that they’re weeds, but there’s nothing else that would come close to being appropriate growing from the ground and it’s the intent that matters most.
As he walks away he thinks that maybe that’s a sort of happy ending and that everything will be okay for him and the boy crying in his bed, wishing to fly. But when he’s in the bathroom washing his hands, the tears find their way to his cheeks again and the thought of a happy ending seems impossible.
“But at least I’m not a fucking bird.” he spits out at his reflection. “Fucking falling out of trees and dying. At least I’d remember that I have fucking wings. Stupid bird.”
But inside he’s cringing because he knows that he was the boy in the bed crying and that he’s really no different now than he was back then. It’s so much easier to wish than to fix your problems.
And so he wishes, dries his hands, and walks out of the bathroom pretending like everything is okay. But in his head he sees his bird standing up and flying away and, fuck, he remembers why he wanted to be a bird a lifetime ago.
He’s not sure why it fell, but it’s on the ground and it’s not moving. He crouches down and stares at it for a moment. He doesn’t think that it’s breathing. There’s no rise and fall in its chest. Ryan reaches out and gently picks it up in one hand even though he knows it’s stupid and that it could be carrying one of a million diseases. It’s so small in his hand and he brings up the index finger from his other hand to lightly stroke the top of the bird’s head.
It’s dead.
Its heart has ceased to function and it’s no longer breathing. Dead. Gone.
Ryan shivers suddenly, even though it’s a warm April day. He had the feeling, like when you remember something but it’s gone so quickly that you’ve forgotten what you were beginning to remember. It was a story he thinks. One of those ‘once upon a time’ things about a boy wanting to be a bird. Or was it a real boy?
Maybe it wasn’t even a story. Maybe it was something else. There was a boy on a bed crying, dreaming of flying. He wanted wings and to be gone, away, not trapped in a human body. There was another boy who brought him a bird, but he pushed it away and killed it with his thoughtlessness and selfishness.
Ryan remembers a little too much then and wishes he had forgotten. He taps the side of the bird with his finger. “Wake up.” he says quietly.
It doesn’t answer and it doesn’t move.
A strangled sort of sob makes its way out of Ryan’s throat and he squeezes his eyes shut, trying to fight the tears, but they burn his irises and he lets his eyes fly open, a sharp exhale almost making him choke. He’s not quite sure what he’s crying for. The bird or himself or the boy in the bed wishing or the bird that the boy knocked to the ground.
And he’s wondering if it’s karma or a lesson or if he’s just reading too far into things because he knows that when his brain starts it goes and goes and goes. “Why’d you die?” he asks the creature in his hands. The bird, his bird, doesn’t answer. And Ryan should feel slightly put off that his latest pet wasn’t his until it had already died, but at least he doesn’t have to worry about some ex-girlfriend taking it or the complications of tour.
And now there’s an almost twisted smile on his face. I’m so fucking sick. There’s really no way to bury it, he thinks. The ground is hard and he doesn’t have a shovel. But he doesn’t want to just leave it there on the ground either. It’s a little too off-handed, like discarding a piece of garbage. And it’s not garbage, it’s a bird—his bird—so he looks around trying to think of another option.
He ends up leaving the bird at the base of the tree, wrapped in a handkerchief from his pocket with a dandelion on top of it. Ryan knows dandelions aren’t actually flowers, that they’re weeds, but there’s nothing else that would come close to being appropriate growing from the ground and it’s the intent that matters most.
As he walks away he thinks that maybe that’s a sort of happy ending and that everything will be okay for him and the boy crying in his bed, wishing to fly. But when he’s in the bathroom washing his hands, the tears find their way to his cheeks again and the thought of a happy ending seems impossible.
“But at least I’m not a fucking bird.” he spits out at his reflection. “Fucking falling out of trees and dying. At least I’d remember that I have fucking wings. Stupid bird.”
But inside he’s cringing because he knows that he was the boy in the bed crying and that he’s really no different now than he was back then. It’s so much easier to wish than to fix your problems.
And so he wishes, dries his hands, and walks out of the bathroom pretending like everything is okay. But in his head he sees his bird standing up and flying away and, fuck, he remembers why he wanted to be a bird a lifetime ago.